


Don't Trust the Pineapple

by decidingdolan



Category: Pushing Daisies, Suits (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suits/(light)Pushing Daisies Crossover. But what would be a better present for Harvey's birthday than the Pie Hole's finest pie, with Mike's own twist? Gift for Pei Yen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Trust the Pineapple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peiyen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peiyen/gifts).



> suddenly popped into my head, the idea of Harvey and Mike watching Pushing Daisies. Discussions with Pei Yen on Twitter turned this around and put the Pie Hole in the Suits 'verse, if only (haha). Add in my morning Season Two Suits rewatch and the pineapple scene. And this was born. 
> 
> Also Inspired by [ this ](http://alittleintoxicated.tumblr.com/post/30526014900) adorable fanart of hers. Love you, bb! <3

Shit.

He knew something was up when Donna winked at him like that on his way to the office. It’s her super secret I-know-a-fact-the-great-Harvey-Specter-doesn’t wink. It’s cheery and sexy and inherently so Donna than he would have liked so early in the morning (it’s ten. He could still label it early. Whatever. He’s Harvey Specter. He set his own life clock.). It reminded him of the other time when they were toge—

No sooner than when he had taken his seat, the kid waltzed in, hands holding a cardboard box the size of—

(Please don’t let it be what he thought it was, for God’s sake.) 

Annoying chippy look on his innocent face. Hope and anticipation for a certain reaction from him in those light blue eyes. 

Yup. A disaster waiting to happen. And he was the targeted key player.

Plus a combination of Donna and Mike, scheming together? 

Add in Louis and book him a ticket to Buenos Aires. He knew he should have left the country when he could.

Mike was placing the box on his desk, between a stack of briefs and the pile of papers he neglected to throw away until last night. And—okay, okay, so he might have been overreacting. It could have been all right. Just. Listen.

When did he fall into a place, this place, to pay such careful attention to Mike anyway? 

(Not caring was supposed to be his only option.)

Right. Look up. Smile. Remind him playtime’s over. In that order.

No, do not sit down on the chair opposite mine. Damn it, Mike. You’re not supposed to be here longer than three minutes.

(And it’s already late—fifteen minutes past ten. He knew what he said, or thought—for him to wrap up last night’s cases.) 

Mike pushed the box towards him. Fine. He appreciated the subtle plea in that gesture, the almost childish excitement rising in the kid’s face. 

But he really needed to work in peace.

He was about to pick up the box and placed it on the floor beside his desk (to worry about later—much later) when Mike opened his mouth and spoke the words which, to put mildly, numbed him for a few seconds.

“Happy Birthday, Harvey.”

How the hell in God’s name did he—

Oh. 

Remind him to cut this out of Donna’s next paycheck. Citing, ah, something akin to, _maybe_ …violation of his personal privacy and information.

Sorry, but you’ll not be seeing that Marni bag anytime soon, honey. 

And she knew. She knew. The redhead had spun around in her office chair at that exact moment, mouthing “You’re welcome,” to his “I’m going to kill you.” 

Look at them. Like that. In perfect synchronization. Her grinning back to his empty death threats like Louis was being fired (a wish. a dream. make of it what you will.). He needed her. 

Still wouldn’t want to fake fire anyone else.

He turned his attention back to the box before him, eyes meeting Mike’s. “I wouldn’t bother wasting my time to ask how you got the information out of Donna, but you would know better that I’d rather you didn’t.”

Sweep the box aside. Sweepin—

Mike was sitting there. Hands gesturing at the box, giving it some kind of overt importance. Huh. “Come on, Harvey. It’s your birthday. I wanted to get you something. Who doesn’t love—“

“It’s my birthday, I know. There’s that. Get back to work, junior.” He didn’t loathe birthdays. He thought them a day giving him a special excuse to take the afternoon off, enjoy a bottle of his favorite whisky, and charm the skirt off the waitress in that restaurant he was going to go to for dinner tonight. 

Alone. Not in a noisy, candle-blowing office gathering with never-ending chants of the stupid birthday song. 

His personal day on display? Not a chance.

The kid’s lips twisted into a soft pout, (Great. He didn’t want to compete against Louis in the current race to depress the most Pearson Hardman associates.) as he stood up to open the box.

Harvey raised an eyebrow.

The box’s paper flap flew open, and he had to (it required some effort on this one, unfortunately) suppress the delight breaking out on his face.

There were no warm, stirring feelings in his stomach right now. None.

Really.

xxxx

He admitted to feigning a pretty admirable eye-roll when Mike, settled down at the booth’s seat opposite him on that day, his hands splayed on the table, popped the question.

“So what is it, are you proposing to me now? Is that why we’re having dinner in a quaint, colorful restaurant?”

It could have been worse. He had knocked back a small chuckle seeing the kid’s squinting at the red, flickering neon sign across the restaurant’s ‘crust’ roof when they were outside. “The ‘Pie-Ho’?” Mike questioned, his tone doubtful. “Red lamps. Man-sized circular windows. Green walls. Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is, Harvey.”

Who was he to thank for the sign? The squeaky voiced, petite blonde waitress—Snookie—was that her name? (Why would someone be named like a half-fairy?) The man with the impossibly bushy eyebrows in white aprons or his curly-haired girlfriend who came up with those cup-pies?

The bafflement in Mike’s face. All surprised and close to losing his shit to witness him, Harvey Specter, in this particular neighborhood. That was priceless.

(Not to say he did not get to enjoy it on a regular basis when he won cases in court in front of the kid. Being in awe in front of the great Harvey Specter was a default mode of behavior, wasn’t it?)

He had jerked his chin towards the doors. “Get in, rookie.”

But Mike’s face when he was munching on his slice of pie had him reorder his list of favorite Mike expressions. Cheeks puffed out comically, bright blue eyes transparent of his enjoyment in the delicious dessert. 

How long till those eyes would be washed over with weariness and experience, having seen and heard too much. That he didn’t want to count down just yet.

The evident naivety in them was, difficult as it may be for him to admit, kind of endearing.

“Seriously, Harvey.” Because he wasn’t watching Mike’s lips move. No. “What is this place—how did you—?”

“Did a case for them—covering up for a missing dead girl,” he started forking his slice of Key Lime pie. “Free pies. I’ll take it.”

“But this is so not yo—“

He had a good laugh, leaning back in the booth, fork directed at Mike. “You think you had me figured out that much, huh, genius?”

Okay. Number one. There it was. His favorite Mike Expression so far.

That tiny upward curl of his lips, eyes bordering on the edge between submission and fondness. A pointless shrug. Hair sticking out in obscene positions that he would not have permitted (had he not send him to the file room). Skinny tie hanging off his neck, loosen, a product of working long hours in his, Harvey’s, office. Crazy wrinkles on his grade-B tailored shirt left unattended (and didn’t look like it was going to be straightened out soon). Its neck unbuttoned, revealing the right amount of skin. Its sleeves rolled carelessly up the owner’s arms.

Mike’s a mess. A beaming, barely kept together mess. A child who had left his fancy suit jacket draped over the booth. 

Huh. Feelings. Caring.

It wasn’t him. 

And yet.

That tongue. Licking and sucking on his fork.

This pie was too sweet. Next time he’s got to start asking the Piemaker for the sugar contents in these things.

xxxx

“ _Fuck_ —Harvey—“

Keep it down. Keep. It. Down. Got to remember that. Mike bit down his lower lip, as Harvey pressed against him, fingers teasing his thigh.

The stacks of boxes rattled against the metal shelves as they panted, breathless, bodies so close to one another. Files and papers were strewn on the floor, alongside their suit jackets. 

And God. He honestly did think he was in trouble. 

Harvey had glanced down at his pineapple pie offering and wordlessly dismissed him out of the room before he could observe any distinct reaction.

(He’d ordered the Pie Hole’s Ned to customize the pie just for Harvey days before.)

Until when the clock’s hand ticked close to noon, and Harvey’s hand dragged him by the tie towards the fileroom. He’d stared at him, doe-eyed in confusion. Within the next breath, his back was to the stack of boxes on the shelves, oxygen cut off by the forceful press of Harvey’s lips on his.

Fucking pineapple pie.

“I thought you told me not to trust the pineapple,” he teased. Hey, he’s allowed a joke or two. His hand was already tangled in Harvey’s hair, the perfect ‘do of New York’s best damn closer nowhere close to its original form. Oh dear.

Harvey was sucking on that spot on his neck that he was most sensitive. “Since you’re giving out presents, tell me this isn’t the last of it.” a growl to his ear.

“Distractions, distractions. Thought you didn’t need any,” he shot back, hands busy unbuttoning Harvey’s shirt and leaning down to press his lips to the exposed skin. 

“You just had to waltz in here with your skinny tie—“ A light threat. Harvey gave a small shake of his head. 

Mike paused, looking up at him. “Oh, so you like it.”

A wry smile, a hand pushing his head back down. “I tolerate it.”

Moans. As he continued. Couldn’t resist feeling the tiniest bit self-satisfied. He was getting better at this. “I must have done something right. Harvey Specter’s tolerating me.” He kissed the skin just above the waistline.

“Don’t push it,” accompanied the sound of Harvey’s belt buckle dropping to the floor. Mike could sense the so-called ‘unbecoming’ cockiness from here.

“Would you call _this_ pushing it?” Ahah. Success. Visibly tensing when he cupped him through his trousers. 

Mike did his best innocent impression when facing Harvey’s pointed, accusing stare. “Keep doing that and you won’t be getting any.”

“Really, Harvey, I thought it’s your birthday.” Mike was on his knees at this point, fingers ghosting along Harvey’s inner thigh. “I was about to…” he trailed off his sentence.

Harvey licked his lips. “You are ridiculous.”

A deft hand unzipped his trousers. “But you love me.”

“Correction: _you_ love me.”

Mike smiled to himself. “Not going to argue with you.”

Harvey’s hand tugged on his tie, another sneaked behind down Mike’s back (lower, _Jesus, lower _) and Mike sucked in a breath. “I make the rules.”__

__He smirked when he felt the soft squeeze on his ass. “Yes, sir.”_ _

__“Enough talk, Mike,” Harvey’s fingers thread through his already mussed hair, his voice firm. “Now give me my present.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for stopping by, clicking on this fic, and reading. Your support, kudos, and comments mean the world to me. 
> 
> Much love, 
> 
> _your ever humble fanfic writer_


End file.
